Layers
by LastProton
Summary: There is a fine line between the Gotham City Police Department and its underworld. Oswald Cobblepot put my balance to the test.
1. Prelude to Tragedy

**Layers**

Trying to preserve the comfort of the dark, I decided to switch on the table lamp as he, still doubtful of my intentions, made an effort to accommodate his umbrella. In the dim light I gave him a mischievous smirk before I took off my coat and demonstratively threw it over the couch. Oswald took the hint. Tentatively he walked farther into the room while I proceeded to arrange for suitable music. Satisfied, I turned to face him again. My heart dropped. He smiled politely, as he usually did, and yet I was convinced I saw a tang of concern. Had he guessed what I was up to?

"I thought we should have at least one dance," I forced myself to say. None of us had brought it up earlier, but I had grown bold over the course of the night and now I wanted more. More of him. I wanted to feel him.

"This is not something I'm proficient in, I'm afraid." The leg.

"Neither am I," I admitted, "but now that no one will see us..." I trailed off. Oswald still did not look confident as I stepped up to him. The instant our eyes met a rush of adrenaline kicked in. I hesitated. A moment passed as I mustered all my courage. The cold of the Gotham winter surrounded him. The scent of snow. His chest slightly moved underneath the tight-fitting waistcoat. I wished I could embrace him as tightly.

Closing the remaining gap between us, I cautiously wrapped my arms around his neck and, sensing no resistance, laid my head on his shoulder. The soft touch of his cold fingers on my bare back made me flinch. However, he left his hand in place, and so I made an attempt at moving to the music.

We were midway into the song when it hit me. "I love your white skin, your touch, cold as ice," the speakers revealed. I felt myself blush. I hadn't thought about the lyrics when I picked the song. Was Oz paying attention? If he drew any conclusions he didn't let it show. I tried my best to play it cool, as well.

Once the music died away we halted. I started to back off, but Oswald did not make a move, holding on to me. How unexpected.

I resumed my previous position. My cheek brushed his face and I let my head rest touching his. Leaving his right hand on my waist, Oswald moved the other one further upwards. Below the halter-neck strap of my dress his fingers found my spine. One by one he traced down the bones. Involuntarily I held him tighter, bringing our hips into contact.

I did not want to let go when his fingers approached cloth again. I wanted to raise my hand to his head, feel his hair, ruffle it. I smiled at the idea and turned my head to face his neck. Only a few layers of clothing separated my lips from his skin. Only an inch's movement to reach above his collar. I wondered what his skin tasted like.

But I let go. Oz let go.

I couldn't look at him. Was I still flushed? Had he noticed my breathing had turned heavier?

"Was this why you asked me to come inside?"

"Yeah."

I tried to make out the expression on his face. The smile was missing.

Taking his time, he picked up his coat.

I had angered him. I had wasted his time. I had gone too far. I shouldn't have pressed. He had hated it.

"Well then, thank you again for accompanying me! I owe you!"

He had put his smile back on.

"No, it was... a pleasure."

"No, really," suddenly he took my hand with both of his, "I insist."

I studied Oswald's sleek fingers that firmly clasped around my hand.

"Okay."

"Okay," he repeated, presenting a pleased smile.


	2. First Layer

The muffled sound of a cloying evergreen penetrated the snowstorm as I reached for the door. Inside only a petty group of men had gathered to play cards. The pianist hadn't noticed my arrival. I stayed in the shades.

Our first encounter occurred shortly before the club opened up. I was about to call it a day when Oswald Cobblepot purposefully walked into the GCPD. A handsome young man, black suit, wild hair, a Machiavellian criminal on the rise. An intriguing combination. He had come to see Detective Gordon, but found his desk empty. I watched as Edward Nygma crept up on him instead. On the one hand Edward was the kind of nerd you felt sorry for. On the other hand you felt sorry for anyone he talked to. Cobblepot did not seem overly fond of Edward's riddles either. When I overheard Edward mention penguins, clearly a joke at the expense of Cobblepot, I stepped in.

"Edward? Sorry to interrupt," I lied, "but I was wondering if you were done with that report."

"Only time will tell."

I willed it into a "yes". "Could you fetch it for me?"

Rid at last of the department's personified conundrum, I turned to Cobblepot.

Handsome indeed. Strands of black hair grazed his eyebrows, emphasising the radiance of blue eyes against pale skin. I could not tell whether he was grateful for being rescued or offended.

"If you're looking for Detective Gordon, he's around. Should be back at his desk any minute." Instantly Cobblepot brightened up. "You can wait here, if you like," I offered a seat.

"Thank you, I shall. It is an urgent-"

He smiled at something behind me. Gordon had returned. I left to allow for them to talk in private, but Cobblepot's urgent matter was a short one. Soon they parted and the Detective came to question me. "Did he invite you, too?"

"Invite me?" My eyes caught a black card he was holding on to: "Oswald's".

"No. He was just looking for you."

"Good. Stay away from him."

Obeying orders had never been my strong point.

The piano fell silent. "What can I do for Gotham's finest today?"

"I am afraid, Mr. Cobblepot, we have reason to believe that you are involved in multiple illegal activities," I declared as I entered the stage.

"Do you have evidence?"

I circled him and warned: "It is merely a question of time." The truth of it struck me with sudden melancholy.

Oswald motioned me to sit next to him. "Play something sad."

Once I had taken my seat, the first notes of House of the Rising Sun filled the air. Carefully, so as not to hinder his playing, I leaned against his shoulder. It felt warm against my cheek. The gentle movement of Oz' fingers across the black and white keys was spellbinding.

"You know, I've always been sorry I missed the opening night."

"I can't say I were disappointed with the course of events."

Charmer.

Having finished the song, my pianist signaled the solitary employee at the bar to switch on the stereo. "Would you like a drink? We've got Absinthe." His smile was infectuous. "Possibly. But first: Remember that favour you insisted on owing me?" You could watch the smile turning smug. "You've come to claim a favour. This should be interesting."

"Well, don't get your hopes up yet."

We had come a long way, still it took some courage to utter the following. "I've come to claim your couch."


	3. Second Layer

Admittedly, I was a little disappointed that Oswald hadn't invited me to share his bed, but spending the night on a couch next door to his bedroom still got me somewhat excited. Which was of little help falling asleep. The room was chilly in spite of the radiator having been set to maximum.

An hour into my sleeplessness I gave in. On the cold floor I tiptoed to the bedroom and hesitantly knocked. No response. No sooner had I reached for the knob that Oz swung the door open.

"What happened?" He had a gun in his hand.

"N-nothing! I'm sorry, I just wanted to ask you something."

He threw one of his diva fits, walked back in and stowed the gun away in a bedside table.

"Well, what is it?"

I couldn't bear him being angry with me.

"I- I'm sorry, I shouldn't have disturbed you," I reached out to shut the door.

He sighed. "Look, just... What is it?"

"I was just wondering if you had another blanket for me. I couldn't fall sleep, it was too cold."

Oswald took his time before replying.

"Sleep here."

All of a sudden a wave of heat rushed through my body.

In the absence of an immediate response, he felt compelled to elaborate. "I have no more blankets. It should be warmer if you sleep here."

"I got that."

"Do you not want to?"

Was he sulking?

"I do! I just... I do. Thank you."

Seemingly reassured, Oswald got into bed.

"You coming?" I hadn't moved.

Hasty I shut the door behind me and moved to the opposite side of the bed. Oswald had lied down with his back towards me. Mirroring him, I climbed under the king-size comforter.

Out of the frying pan into the fire. How was I ever supposed to fall asleep now, a hand's width away from the guy my heart beat for?

Pounded like mad, actually, at the moment. I couldn't make up my mind whether him wearing full pyjamas was a bummer or a blessing.

After a while I dared to roll over.

"Are you still awake?" He almost whispered and yet startled me.

"Yes?"

"Still too cold?"

I had forgotten all about that.

"I don't know." Mentally I chastised myself for the idiotic reply as soon as the words had left my lips.

Abruptly, Oz turned around. Faced me.

"You don't know?"

I was about to shrug, then realised it would not have been visible.

A moment passed. Neither of us made a move. Oswald's breath softly flowed over my face.

At last he dissolved the tension by rolling onto his back, his eyes shut.

Could he have intended to offer body warmth in case I was still cold? I could not differentiate between fact and wishful thinking any more.

I studied his profile against the gloomy light of the window across the room. The spiky hair. The bridge of his nose. The curve of his lips.

The curve of his lips.

I could have bent over him. I could have felt his breath again. I could have-

I shook off the thought.

However, I had to take my chances on the other matter. I would have regretted no to.

Under our shared comforter I shifted closer to him. As Oz lifted his head I stopped midway, doubtful if this was a sign to back off.

It was not. Oswald stretched out his arm across the bed.

It was an invitation.

I bridged the gap. With caution I laid my head upon his chest. In return, Oz brought his arm back under the bedspread, embracing my shoulders.

Deliberately, I placed my hand farther up, only to run down his chest, tracing the flesh beneath the cotton. Oswald exhaled. He shifted a bit and, having found a comfortable position, lay still. I indulged in the light movements of his respiration and the sound of his heartbeat for a little longer, then finally got off to sleep.


	4. Third Layer

"Since when do criminals have early morning appointments?" To my disappointment I found Oz and me disentangled when the alarm rudely awakened us. Oz deactivated it but lingered in bed.

"Ignore it."

"Do you have to leave?"

"Mh. In a bit." The Penguin was not an early bird, it appeared. "You can stay."

Drowsily, I reached around his body, spooning him. "Stay, too."

Oz got hold of my arm. He let his hand glide until our fingers met. "Got business to attend to." I nudged my forehead against his back.

Just five more minutes.

Too soon did he slide out of my grip.

I got up as well. Oz was still early for his "business" appointment and walked me to the rail station.

The morning light was cold blue, reflecting off the snow in the streets and sparkling in the icicles that hung from roofs and window frames, and placidity lay over the streets and we were the only people left in the world. We passed a diner and decided we had time for a quick breakfast together. The diner was deserted with the exception of a sullen man tucking in ham and eggs in the far back. We took a seat by the window and asked for the menu.

Oswald opted for tea and pastry and departed before long. Through the window I watched him walk away, as the ham and eggs man suddenly made haste to leave. When he turned into Oz' direction, I jumped up. The man walked a few paces ahead, clearly following Oz. He dug for something behind his back. I knew what it was before he got it out. Desperately, I went through my options. Without a weapon, there were few.

He stood still to aim.

I broke an icicle off the diner's window frame and dashed towards him. The moment he heard the snow crunch below my feet he turned his head and I stabbed the icicle into his left eye.

He let out a scream, reaching for his face with his free hand and pointing his gun at me with the other. I dove to the ground. The first bullet missed, the second hit below my shoulder. I struggled to get behind a parked car. Multiple shots followed from farther away. The man fired once into Oz' direction and fell. He lay on his back, the icicle still protruding from the eye socket. Oz came running as swiftly as he could. He aimed to shoot again.

"Wait!" If he shot again, this might not look like self defence any more. Oz was bewildered by my intervention, but complied. I crawled over to check for the pulse while Oz kicked the pistol out of the limp body's reach.

No pulse. "He's dead," I let myself fall into the snow, "he's dead."

I reached for the red stain that had formed on chest. So close, I thought, marvelling at my blood-smeared hand.

"Get an ambulance!" I heard paces recede back into the diner. Oz dropped on his knees next to me.

"You injured?" I asked.

"Me?" he sneered. "No, no I'm not injured," he stressed the "I".

He took off his scarf and pressed it in a clot against my wound. Black wisps of hair fell over his eyes. I reached out to brush them away. His face started to blur.


	5. Fourth layer

Detective Gordon stood by the window, looking out into blackness. A hospital room. I tried to sit up, but shifting weight hurt. Gordon heard me move and turned around. His look was stern.

"How do you feel?" I could tell his sole concern was whether I could stand an interrogation.

"Okay." Speaking was straining, I would need to budget words.

He advanced. "I'm going to ask this only once. And you better have some damn good answers." He paused for effect. "What the hell have you been doing with the Penguin at seven freaking AM, in a diner, a stone's throw away from his apartment?"

"Dining?" I suggested.

Gordon did not share my sense of humour.

"Just crashed at his place, my heating had gone FUBAR."

"His place. Of all people. You expect me to believe there's nothing going on between you two?"

"There isn't."

"And I suppose it was just a coincidence that you joined the GCPD right after Cobblepot came into the picture? And that it was just a coincidence that he was absent during the raid?"

There he stroke a nerve.

"I had not warned him," I hissed.

He turned to head out. "You're suspended." The bulk of the precinct work for the mob and they suspend me?

"Wait! What about the... diner guy?"

He obviously contemplated whether I deserved the information.

"Mark Jones. Had a son, Scott, who worked for Cobblepot until a mysterious disappearance."

Revenge.

"There won't be any charges pressed?"

"No. Owner of the diner confirmed you did it in defence."

"And Cobblepot?"

Gordon simply walked away, leaving my question hanging in the air.

As the door shut behind him, I heard him tell the staff I was awake.

I expected a medic to come in and check on me. Instead Oswald appeared in the entrance. No charges pressed against him either, I concluded.

His tie was undone, the collar unbuttoned. He had to have been kept in the holding cells for the investigation.

"You saved my life," he proclaimed in a taunting manner, as though he had caught me in the act.

"Well, ditto, I guess."

"The icicle in the eye?" he was thrilled, "I wished I had thought of it! It was still in place when the police arrived, it was hysterical!"

The memories descended upon me. The feeling of the ice in my hand, piercing through the gelatinous eyeball, abruptly hitting something hard. I suddenly felt sick.

Oz' spirit dropped. "You regret it."

"No, God, no." It had been the right thing to do. "I'd do it again. Any time. It's just-" Involuntarily I looked at my hands. "...nauseating."

Oz gave me a weak smile. "I see." I wondered if my failure to relish violence disappointed him. "Anyhow," he clasped my hand, "I need to thank you." He bowed down to me, and for a split second I thought he would kiss me, but his lips came to a halt above my forehead. He hovered an instant, then gave me a kiss. Infinitely soft.

"What's this?" he asked once his lips had parted with me. I followed his line of view below the bandage on my torso.

"...a tat." I feared Oswald's response.

He let go of my hand and reached for the gown I was wearing.

"Do you have more?"

I shook my head.

He pushed back the seam to see the entirety of the image.

"A crosshair?" He chuckled "A crosshair on the heart. Well, if that isn't morbid."


	6. Fifth layer

Below my feet dusk crept from the dark hallway into the cold, desolate, flat. There was no welcome mat here. I swung the door shut and locked in the darkness with me.

Forgetting about the stitches in my shoulder, I slumped onto the couch. The pain reminded me to use the arm that was not in a sling to switch on the TV-set. Hollow, irrelevant pictures flickered on.

Gordon had not gone through with my suspension, or, more likely, he was not able to justify it. Nevertheless, I was still on sick leave. Not that I was looking forward to facing my colleagues, who had doubtlessly made up their minds about what had happened that day, I just did not fancy another ten days of tediousness. Wrapped in my coat I remained seated until the darkness engulfed the room and everything that was in it except for the blue shimmer of the television screen.

A knock on the door startled me out of my trance. Through the fish eye I spotted Oswald. Quite a coincidence that he should come to see me just upon my release from hospital, I pondered. He was holding a bouquet of flowers and, as usual, he was dressed to kill. As I opened up, bright light flooded the living room, making me blink at the silhouette in the hallway.

"Hi," he started, "...is this a bad time?"

What this must have looked like to him, I cursed myself. "No, it's fine. Just didn't get around to..." I finally switched on the lights. "Come in."

"The heating hasn't been repaired yet?" Oswald asked, having stepped inside. Pointlessly I looked across the room, as if the radiator held an answer. Indeed, it had been a heating failure that had led me to spend a night at Oswald's before I got hospitalised.

"I haven't checked," I had to confess. He looked at me, searched for something. I could not maintain the eye contact, my gaze wandered to the flowers he was holding, and that was when I first realised what they were.

"White lilies?"

"Oh, yes," he held them out to me, "I had a feeling you might have a penchant for the grotesque."

A new aspect of Oswald Cobblepot had revealed itself to me: attention.

"I do. Thank you." I took over the bouquet and headed off to the kitchenette in search for a makeshift vase.

"You should have seen the hospital staff," Oz scoffed, "funeral flowers do not go well with them." "You were at the hospital," I stated rather than asked.

"Seems I missed you by a matter of minutes." He leaned onto the counter and watched me fill a tall glass with water. "I'm sorry I did not come to visit earlier."

I could have told him not to worry about it, that I did not mind. It would have been the polite thing to do. But I realised it would have been a lie. I had missed him. What had he been up to, had something kept him away, I wanted to ask, well knowing I could not. We had a silent agreement that we would not discuss anything potentially incriminating, anything that I would have to report. Which, considering Oz' area of operations, limited our topics of conversation significantly.

I set the glass on the counter that now separated Oz and me and, not knowing what to say, started to arrange the lilies therein to stall for time.

"Wanna go some place warmer?"

I nodded.

When we approached the black sedan, an eager youngster, Ignatius, if I was not mistaken, rushed around to let us in. The refined Mister Cobblepot took a liking to a little splendour. I, on the other hand, did not feel comfortable employing a mobster's services.

_Just this once,_ I persuaded myself.

We drove through busy streets of the down town rush hour, I had not asked where to, did not care. On the pavement people were buzzing between the illuminated shop windows on their way home or to the next happy hour. Inside the seclusion of the car silence prevailed. Oswald sat on the other side, lost in his thoughts. Troubled thoughts, it seemed. Light and shade took turns on his face. I wondered if things would have been different if we had taken a cab. If we could have ignored the presence of the driver and were ignored in return. If then I could have reached out into the distance that the other end of the bench seat appeared to be.

When we got stuck in a traffic jam, an opportunity shone a neon light.

"How about sushi?"

Without giving Oz a chance to consent, I motioned to come along and got out onto the lane. Oz followed me to the pavement and upon spotting the restaurant I had in mind took over the lead. He had something about him that made the other pedestrians make way for him. Attitude. Confidence. I tried to follow suit but had to dodge the oncoming walkers and lost him in the crowd.

By a street lamp I stood up on tiptoes to get a better view.

"What are you doing?" Out of thin air Oz had appeared right next to me.

"I lost you."

The eye-roll that ensued told me I was behaving ridiculous. Oz took my hand and led me through the oncoming pedestrian traffic. Everyone around us blurred into a murmuring stream. Oswald moved in slow motion. Flapping coat. Waddling way of walking. Reflections of swirling lights on glossy shoes. Black hair ruffled by the wind. White cuffs peeking out above the hand that reached back and out to me. Cold fingers that gently clasped around mine.

I bumped into Oz when he halted and the stream dissipated. Above us glowed the red lettering of Shibuya Sushi.

I resorted to eating the sushi with my hands, while Oz tried his best making use of the chopsticks. I doubted this was the kind of restaurant he usually frequented, but, as always, he radiated sophistication. That is, until a particular kind of sushi roll that looked like it had been turned inside out refused to stay between the sticks. His clumsiness was adorable to watch, a rare glimpse of a not-quite-composed Oswald Cobblepot.

"Here, let me help you," I grinned at him and reached out for the roll.

"Don't mock me!" Oswald snarled.

From across the bar the chef eyed us.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

Oswald showed an intimidating side at times. A poorly chosen word and you were at risk of making him snap. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him take a gulp of sake.

"Fine. Help me."

But his tone was still harsh and I had lost my courage. "It's okay, I'm sure you can-"

"Oh for crying out loud! Would you just do it?!"

I obeyed. Reached out for the roll, brought it to level with his mouth.

I looked him in the eye. _Are you serious? _

I could not read his expression. Was he nervous? All at once I felt my own heartbeat, heard the blood rush through my ears. I felt everyone's eyes on me. Then I looked at his lips and the world around us became indistinct again. Oz parted his lips, slightly at first, our eyes met for a last reassurance and he advanced an inch. I placed the roll between his lips, just as far my fingertips would not touch him. But he made yet another move forward and for a brief moment Oswald's lips grazed my fingers.

I could not help but smile. Why did such a trivial thing excite me? This was pathetic. I tried to play it cool and downed my cup of sake, struggling not to look at my hand that held the cup, where I still felt the warm imprint of his lips.

"Shall we leave?" It was getting crowded and it felt like we had been blocking the seats for hours. Oz did not reply immediately. Searched for the right words, it seemed.

"I have a confession to make," he simpered.

"I came to see you for a reason." He leaned towards me and I took it as a signal to do the same. Resting a hand on my knee, he spoke into my ear. Warm breath brushed my skin.

"I need a little piece of information."

I faced him.

"Don't do this," I pleaded. My voice was but a whisper.

He barely smiled and closed in to speak again.

I turned away. "Oz, for your own sake... You know I will have to report it."

"W-what do you mean? You were ready to kill for me!"

"That was defence." I could not look at him. "I'm not going to break the law for you."

"This is where you draw the line? This?" he laughed hysterically. "You have no problem visiting my club, staying at my place- I can assure you, they were not paid with honestly earned money," he hissed.

"You're right." I fought back tears. "I shouldn't have done either."

Oz kept quiet. The sound of clattering dishes and spirited conversations encompassed us.

"I see," he got up at last, his tone was resentful. "Well, then..." The words hung in the air as he donned his coat. I felt his gaze pierce into my back. Eventually he marched out and his reflection in the mirror behind the bar was the last I saw of Oswald Cobblepot until my first kill.


	7. Sixth Layer

The sky was overcast, had been for days on end. Soiled remnants of the last snowfall trailed the curbs or huddled together in piles to delay their inevitable fate. I had pulled the hood deep down over my head, it had felt oddly appropriate. No one had bothered to stop me, no one had expected me to flee, I had simply walked away from the crime scene.  
Meanwhile a few hours had passed and they were certainly searching for me, going back to the flat was not an option. I browsed through my pockets (my wallet was still at the precinct), a desolate ten Dollar bill and some change was all I had. Just enough for a drink.

It was not until I entered the club that it occurred to me that somebody might come up with the idea of looking for me there. But I saw no uniforms, no one I knew from the precinct. Neither did I see Oswald. I did not know what I expected, I had virtually told him that I wished I had never met him and not seen him since (we had broken up, Harvey Bullock had joked), I would have been content with stealing a glance at him, seeing that mischievous smile again when he played games with everyone around him.  
Victor Zsasz sat at a table together with his girls, other than that I only knew one of the bartenders.  
"Long time no see," Joe greeted me, "what can I do for you?"  
At least I still got served.  
"Is Oswald around?" It felt strange to mention his first name, back at GCPD it was "the Penguin" or "Cobblepot". "Oswald" implied an intimacy that did not feel deserved.  
Joe had not seen him since his shift started. However, a detective had been there, had told the staff to call him if I turned up. To my relief the number he had noted belonged to Detective Bullock.  
"Call him, its all right. But first..." I fished out the bill, "give me whatever I can get for this."  
"How about a Johnny Walker on the house?"  
"I don't think your boss would-"  
"Give us the bottle," somebody interrupted.  
The hood limited my field of view and I had to turn to see him. Zsasz. Not someone I would drink with on any other day, he gave the impression of being permanently pissed off. On this day I came along. At least he did not make me sit down with his henchwomen. But claim his expenses he did. "Who knew the Penguin's righteous friend was a cold blooded sniper. If you fancy an occupational change, I have an open position." He knew.  
"Haven't watched the news lately?" He had seen my surprise. "The heroic desk clerk who saved everybody's sweetheart Bruce Wayne." Four killed and they called it heroic.  
"Were they your first?" Zsasz leaned across the table. "Tell me, what did you feel?"  
I downed a double shot, stalled for time. "What did you feel?" I asked in return.  
He told me the story of his first murder -a story. For all I knew, he could have made it up on the spot- of a man who tried to mug him just as he was about to commit suicide, who Zsasz then stabbed with the robber's own knife.  
"But as soon as it was over," he concluded, "it felt like it had never happened. I needed a proof." He pulled back a sleeve. Cuts in groups of five were scattered on his arm, most were old scars, a few seemed more recent, the pattern was strangely mesmerising, I ran my fingers across the scars, felt the relief on his hot skin.  
"Got a knife on you?"  
He grinned. Of course he did.  
I presented my palm to him, knowing I could not do it myself. Zsasz took my hand, held it tight, anticipating me to flinch. It hurt less than I imagined. For a split second it seemed like nothing happened, then, at once, the blood gushed out, warm, dripped onto the table.

"What the heck is this supposed to be?"  
Harvey came up to our table, ready to yank Zsasz away from me.  
"I got blood on my hands," I told him and suddenly found it hilarious, broke out into laughter.  
"Would you excuse us," Harvey advised Zsasz, kind as ever, "and can we get a first aid kit over here?" he called over to the bar.  
"Zsasz." I stopped him as he got up, "Nothing. Sorry." Graciously, he let me have the bottle anyway.

One hand bandaged, the other one holding on to my friend Johnnie (shouldn't the Detective have stopped me from drinking?), I walked out into the chilly air of a decaying winter after sunset. "Where did you… park." I meant to turn back to Harvey, but down the road I spotted a familiar figure. Oz, escorted by Ignatius and two men I did not know, was coming our way.  
"C'mon," Harvey dragged me along into their direction, "car's around the block."  
For a moment Oswald's and my eyes locked. None of us said a word. We went past each other and then the moment passed.  
"Detective Bullock." The sound of Oz' voice. "Would you give us a moment?"  
Courteous words that resonated with condescension.  
Harvey and I exchanged a look. "I won't bolt."  
He didn't like it, but gave in. "Five minutes. Break the curfew and I'll have my Lemon Chicken with a different kind of poultry today."

"So you're back," Oz noted once we were alone. "Dropped in for a drink, I see?"  
A smile that masked taunt.  
Pitch-black hair that veiled piercing eyes.  
Off-beat neckwear.  
All these petty things I had missed. I wished I could have simply locked him in my arms forever and let the rest of the world fall into oblivion.  
"Are you... Are you crying?" Oz asked incredulously.  
I had not noticed. A tear ran down my cheek. Hastily I wiped it off, then looked stupidly at my fingers, as if I had to check its authenticity.  
"Thought I'd see a familiar face here," I finally replied to his rhetoric question. "But then I saw Zsasz..." I tried to banter. Another tear. I took a sip from my bottle. _Pull yourself together.  
_Oz came closer. "What an uncommon display of feelings." He pushed the hood off my head, took hold of my cheek, his thumb wiped across the trail of a tear. "Could it be that you have missed me?" he asked complacently, to which I could only reply with a death stare. "It's okay," he assured me ridiculing, "tell you what..." Oz leaned in, brought his head side to side with mine, his hair brushed my flushing cheek. "...I missed you, too," he whispered, suddenly earnest.  
I reached out for him, felt the fabric of his vest under my fingertips. Oz' hand moved from my cheek to the back of my head, fingers dug their way through my hair. His head pulled away, making me miss his closeness at once, only for Oz to give me a kiss on the cheek. Soft, warm lips. I slid my hand under his coat and jacket, both unbuttoned, reached around him and up his back, savouring every inch. In return, Oz put his free arm around me, pulled me closer. The bottle of Johnnie Walker was in the way now, for a split second I contemplated letting go of Oz to set it down, but instead I tossed it to the side. The sound of its shattering echoed in the otherwise silent surroundings.  
I sneaked the other hand under Oz' jacket as well, completing our embrace, our heads touched and I thought I sensed him sniff at my hair. In silence we stood until I felt at peace again.

"I can't take back what I said," I finally found the strength to say. "It would have been the best for all if I had never approached you."  
"How would that have been best for me?" he quietly inquired.  
I broke off him. This was it. The minute that would determine if I would lose him for good.  
"I only used you," I confessed, "I came to Gotham seeking thrill and you were my door in."  
"Oh please," he rolled with his eyes, "Anyone who comes to Gotham is out for thrill in one way or another!"  
I needed a moment to let that sink. I kept underestimating his insight.  
"You knew all along."  
He shrugged. "I scratch your back, you scratch my back. A snitch with access to all kinds of police records? I'll take that."  
"I'd never do this."  
"Yeah, now I know."  
"See? Best for you. I'm of no use."  
"I think we're beyond that point by now."  
_Are we?  
_A single snowflake spiralled down between us. I looked up into the once so oppressive sky. "It's snowing again," I rejoiced.  
Oz on the other hand seemed rather confused. I reached out for his face, cold skin beneath my fingertips. I leaned in for a kiss.  
But Oz stepped back, slipped from my fingers.  
Before I could comprehend, I saw his stern look shift from me into the distance.  
Harvey stood at the street corner and gestured what's-taking-so-long. I could not tell if Oz had seen him and therefore retreated, or if I had misinterpreted his insinuation.  
I looked back at him. "See you around?"  
"Yes," he nodded with a gloomy smile.

...

Bonus:

"Can I unbutton your vest, too?"

"Too cold."


	8. Seventh Layer

I was on the top-floor of the C Building, looking down on Gotham through the scope of my Savage 10 FLP. I saw wanna-be mobsters and petty thieves, corrupt police men and politicians. I saw Mooney and Maroni. And I took every one of them down. I heard the cops climbing up the stair. Breaking open the door. Heavy boots approached my vantage point. But I was not there. I was in my own flat. And someone had entered it.  
I sat up in bed. My Savage was gone. Locked away in the property room back at GCPD.  
It was Oz who tentatively peeked into my bedroom. Throwing the duvet over my head, I lay back down.  
"You don't write, you don't call," he complained, as he walked across the room and flung open the curtains. Warm orange light filled my cave. "Whatever happened to 'see you around'?"  
It had to have been days since I had said this to him.  
"Been busy," I said.  
"Oh yes, I saw the valley of Chinese take out."  
I felt the movement on the bed as Oz sat down behind my back.  
"Did you pick the lock?" I asked.  
"Bribed the apartment manager," Oz said. "Much faster."  
He shifted again. I felt the weight of his body sink into the mattress closer to me. Over the duvet he laid an arm around me. I drew a deep breath. Took in the sensation of being cradled.  
"I don't know what to do," I admitted then. "I came here... I wanted to be one of the good guys. Good guys don't kill."  
"The press calls you a hero."  
"Press, funded by Wayne."  
Oz sighed and let go of me, standing up. "I brought you a little something," he said, "perhaps that will cheer you up."  
Something heavy was set upon the bed.  
I felt compelled to sit up. What I found then was a huge weapons case. Oz motioned for me to open it up and so I did. An Arctic Warfare Suppressed. 28" silencer, laser sight, no serial number. This was not meant for sports. And, in all likelihood, acquired with blood money. Yet I hesitated to reject the gift. I reached out to feel the cold metal and smooth plastic.  
"Thank you," I said, and the tinge of apprehension on Oz' face melted into a smile.

The night had fallen upon the coast by the time we made our way through the rows of shipping containers. The last traces of snow had disappeared and the air felt warm. Warmer than it should have at this time of the year, but after the harsh cold of the past weeks even the slightest rise in temperature did not go by unnoticed.  
Taking Oz to the police shooting range was out of question and I did not feel like running into colleagues anyway. I followed Oswald to the eastern railing, where we lay down with the AWS and a pair of binoculars. The AWS had a lower range than my Savage, but I liked the sensation of its heavier weight and the feeling of covertness. I shot the lights of the buoys to be able to test the night sight, then let Oz give it a try. He didn't exactly hit the bull's eye, but seemed to enjoy himself nevertheless. I watched him lying next to me, propped on the elbows, mere inches away. His hair was swept to the side for a clear view. After a particularly good hit his lips parted into a joyful smile. I lost my patience.  
"Oz," I said quietly.  
He faced me.  
I leaned in - slowly, giving him time and space. For a split second his gaze fell to my lips, then panic washed over his face. He pulled back, speechless for once.  
It had not been because of Harvey the other day. He simply wasn't interested in me. Not this way, at least.  
"So you have a job for me?" I asked.  
"A job?"  
"That's what the rifle is for, ain't it? You want me to work for you."  
He vehemently shook his head. "N-no," he said, eyes wide. "I- it was just a gift. All I..." frantically he searched for words. Before he found them, the cone of a torch swept over our heads, reflecting off the placid, dark navy water.  
"So much for this port being unguarded," I complained, as we hurried to our feet.  
The cone returned, this time hitting the two of us spot on. From a shorter distance than I had hoped, a hoarse voice called out to us. Weapons case in my hand, I lead the way away from the guard. Naturally, Oz had trouble keeping up, and I feared he might simply turn and use the AWS.  
Farther inland I passed an unlocked container. More unused ones sat in the vicinity. I took the chance. As soon as he had caught up, I pulled Oz inside and shut the container door behind him.  
Oz stood back, trying to catch his breath, while I hearkened to the sounds outside. Slowly steps on concrete closed in on us. And passed. Hope rose that we might get away unnoticed, that the guard would not catch an employee of Gotham's Finest in the act of illegal sharp shooting with one of Gotham's most renowned criminals.  
"It really was only meant as a gift," Oz said, suddenly close to my ear.  
"Shhh," I reprimanded into the utter darkness.  
"You've been wanting an upgrade, remember?" he went on unfalteringly. "What better time to get one?"  
"A black market one?" I whispered.  
"What about the beverages at the club? You did not seem to have a problem with those," Oz snapped. "Where did you think the money for those came from, hm? What about the rides in my car? What about an_ything_ that is mine? Where do you draw the line, at which point does it become unacceptable?"  
"Oz, please, be quiet!" I told him.  
Instead, angrily, he pushed past me and with a screech stepped outside. The steps were back within seconds.  
Pointing the torch and a handgun at Oz, the man hidden behind the cone of light commanded him to drop the rifle. With my hands up, I cautiously stepped into the light as well. "Don't do this," I whispered to Oz, who still held on to the Arctic Warfare.  
"My friend," Oz called out, "I am afraid you are unaware of who you are facing."  
"I said: Drop the rifle!" the security guard only shouted.  
"Surely you must have heard of me," Oswald continued. "The Penguin? Ring any bells?"  
Silence.  
"Penguin?" the man incredulously repeated at last. The torch shifted from Oz to me, blinding me momentarily, and back.  
The guard approached us, tucking his gun away. "Sorry, man. Didn't recognise you."  
Oz waved a hand at him. "Not a problem at all. Nobody's got hurt, that's all that counts." He handed the AWS over to me.  
"What's your name, friend?" He asked, offering a handshake.  
"Hill. Dan Hill."  
"Mr. Hill," Oswald said, as his knife bit into the guard's kidney, "how unfortunate for you," he turned the knife, "to have tun into us tonight." Hill dropped the torch and reached across his hips, struggled to free the handgun from his holster. In a blink I was by his side and the pistol was in my hand. As he sunk to his knees Oz pulled the knife out and finally let the guard's hand drop. I stood motionless, watched the puddle of blood grow in size.  
Careful not to soil his shoes, Oz leaned over and cleaned the blade on Hill's jacket.  
"Now what?" he asked me. "Get me arrested?"  
I looked down at the gun in my hand. What a lame way to go this would be.  
"No," I said and handed him the pistol.  
He paused for a moment. Then, walking through the puddle of blood, suddenly not caring about his shoes any more, he did not reach for the pistol but walked right past it and into my outstretched arm. With determination he placed his palm on my cheek.  
He looked me in the eye, stared almost, seemed to be waiting. I shut my eyes.  
Slowly Oz' hand slid downwards, until his thumb reached my upper lip. Nervously and barely touching, his thumb traced the curve of my lip. As I exhaled, it broke the stream of my breath. I jumped at the sound of metal hitting concrete, only to realise that the pistol had slipped out of my hand. Daringly, I laid the empty hand on Oswald's back instead. He held still, waited until I shut my eyes again. He reached the point where both lips met and proceeded to run his thumb along the lower one. Barely beyond midway, he halted. I sensed Oz taking a step forward, sensed his breath softly flow over my face. His lips touched my cheek. A kiss he seemed to hold for minutes.  
"W-why are you crying?" he asked in panic when he finally broke away.  
"Wish I knew," I said, just as confused. It felt like a crack tearing through a wall.


	9. Eighth Layer

They applauded me. I had killed four men in cold blood and they applauded me. I faked my thanks and rushed to the desk, only to find a bunch of notes regarding missed calls from the press. Everyone wanted an interview with the civilian that had saved the town's golden boy.  
"Good to see you back at the desk," Harvey patted me on the back. "You doin' alright?"  
"I'm the media's pet," I said, holding up the post-its, "How could I possibly feel bad?"  
"Hey, if you get to meet that Vicky Vale, get me her number, will ya?"  
"Sure, Harv."  
He gave me a disappointed look as I dropped the notes into the waste basket.

I was on my way back up from the archive when I noticed him. He was standing by Harvey's and Gordon's desks, a wide smile on his face, a bouquet of pink roses in his hands. I could practically hear Harvey tell him that no, Gordon would not be his Valentine.  
Oz spotted me and his smile grew even wider. Excusing himself from Gordon, he hurried down the stairs. The two detectives' eyes were not the only ones in the bullpen that followed him on his way to me.  
"I was beginning to fear I might have missed you," Oz greeted.  
"I was just..." I kept staring at the flowers, hoping they were not meant for me. "What are you doing here?" I asked cautiously.  
"I came to... I wanted..." He laughed anxiously. "This is... unusual," he observed his own loss of eloquence. Harvey and Gordon watched the scene uneasily, while some of the other colleagues started to make fun of Oz.  
"Are these for me?" I asked then, holding out both my hands.  
"Oh! Yes, yes," he said.  
Hidden from the sight of our surroundings, our fingers touched when I reached for the flowers and neither of us made a move to correct this - we froze, both holding on to the bouquet.  
"Did- did you know that light pink roses symbolise admiration?" Oz asked rhetorically. "And hope for... for..." He blushed.  
Guessing his meaning, I felt hot blood rush to my own cheeks. In my ears my heart thumped.  
"Thank you," I said, in utter loss for words.  
"They come with an invitation," Oz continued nervously.  
"And I have to return them if I decline?" I joked.  
He suddenly looked scared.  
"Yes," I hurried to say, "I mean, 'Yes' to... I mean I... I won't decline." I moved one hand away from the bouquet and covered my eyes. I was making a fool of myself.  
"At eight then?" Oz asked.  
I nodded. "Okay."  
"I'll pick you up."  
"Okay."

"The hell was this about?" Gordon came over to ask as soon as Oz had walked out.  
I could not think of a clever retort. Nothing that would disperse his suspicion.  
"You're blushed to the ears," he pointed out.  
My enduring silence only appeared to confirm what Gordon had assumed from the start. He grabbed my arm and pulled me along to the locker room.  
"I had told you to stay away from him!" Gordon hissed at me.  
"Why? You jealous?"  
He snatched the roses out of my hand and tossed them into the trash bin. "Cobblepot is dangerous! If he hasn't got his hands around your throat yet, you can be damn sure he will."  
"Maybe I wouldn't mind that."  
"This is serious," Gordon continued his rant. "I know this guy, I know what he's capable of. All he ever does is manipulating, using people for his own goals. Do you really think he cares for you? He cares for no one but himself."  
He had a point. None that hadn't been hiding in the back of my head anyway, but still, it dragged me down from my high.  
"What if I just don't care?" I asked and pushed past Gordon to fish the damaged flowers out of the garbage.

Relax. Relax, I kept telling myself, looking into the mirror, checking my looks for the dozenth time. My heart was racing. Why was I nervous? It wasn't the first time I went out with Oz. Okay, it was our first_ official_ date, but- _Hold on. Was_ this a date? He never said 'date'. All he did say was 'invitation' – which could have meant anything. Why had I assumed it was a date? I ran out of the bathroom - I was overdressed for something that was not a date. _Wait._ The make-up. The make-up was over the top as well. The very second I turned back towards the bathroom the door bell rang. _Too late._  
As always, Oz was wearing a suit and it was impossible to tell if he had dressed up for a date or not.  
"I uh... I was unsure what the dating conventions were," Oz said, "a second bouquet seemed unfit, but I couldn't bring myself to show up empty-handedly." He held up a single white bloom.  
I let out a nervous laughter and let my head lean onto his shoulder. Oz was nervous, too. It was a date and he was nervous, too. And he had brought me another flower.  
"Are you unwell?" he asked.  
_I__diopathic __tachycardia_, I almost said, but bit my tongue.  
"Is it a corsage," I asked, raising my head again, "shall I wear it?"  
"Would you?"  
"Might draw level with your outfit for once," I taunted.  
Calmly, Oz proceeded to attach the flower to my dress. He let my remark pass, did not throw a fit, did not command to refrain from mocking him, nothing.  
"Are _you_ unwell?" I asked. "Since when do you not mind people teasing you?"  
"I have come to realise that _your_ teasing me is not an insult," he said, eyes locked on his work at hand, "but rather... Affectionate."  
Heat flushed over my cheeks again. Perhaps something was wrong with me after all.

My worries about being potentially overdressed had been less than uncalled for. Oz took me to a restaurant that had to be one of the fanciest places in town. Revenge for that cheap sushi bar I had dragged him to once, I supposed.  
Some of the guests recognised Oz, nodded their heads at him. Some of the guests _I_ recognised. The deputy mayor; Harvey So-and-So – a lawyer I had seen around the precinct; the medic that had had some quarrel with the Wayne company; multiple faces that I recognised from police files.  
"I have no idea what half of this stuff is," I said reading the menu.  
"You can always order a bottle of Johnny Walker."  
"Look who's sassy today," I laughed.  
"I am... very pleased about this... About us doing this," Oz switched back to sincerity. "I have been looking forward to this for a long time."  
"Since, like, 5PM?"  
"I mean it," he said, "I've been wanting to do this for some time. It was just that there were certain things that held me back. Things that needed my attention." Oz' tone grew blue. "It's in the past now," he nodded to himself, "It's in the past and yet I feel compelled to-"  
Our waiter arrived and Oz fell silent.  
"Would you order for me, too?" I asked him. "Something other than Johnny Walker."  
"That's not-"  
"Sorry for disturbing you," the man standing next to me said, who, as I looked up, I realised, was not our waiter, "but aren't you the desk sergeant that saved the Wayne kid?"  
I told him "No". And it wasn't even lie – I was not the desk sergeant.  
"Come on, I saw the picture in the Gazette," the man insisted and I started to wonder if he had had a little too much of the overpriced champagne. "That was very impressive, you know? Taking these thugs out – I shoot for sports myself and those hits were-"  
"Excuse me," an elder woman from the next table interrupted, "I couldn't help overhearing. Is this true, are you the one that saved Bruce Wayne?"  
"Did you hear that?" someone else asked. "...the Wayne sniper?" "...but this is..." "...saved Bruce Wayne 's life..." "...four bullets..." People started to gather around our table, trying to congratulate, to shake hands with me. "...drink on me..." "...mobster..." "...through the windows..." "...poor boy..."  
"'Poor boy'?!" I raised my voice. "'Poor boy'?!" The crowd silenced. "If that bored billionaire brat of yours hadn't poked his nose into police work, none of this would have happened." I turned to Oz. "Can we leave, please?"


End file.
